Ground Fog

Saturated air. Can't see the other side of the hollow, can't see anything, actually. Even the trees close to the house are veiled in a gossamer haze. The moisture condenses, and water is dripping everywhere, though it isn't raining exactly. The rice dish, because I got five meals instead of four, comes down to $1.05 a serving. I might go back to the museum tonight, it's supposed to get much colder and snow, to be there for the carpet guys tomorrow, and also to follow the Super Bowl, as text, downloaded as a delayed play by play. The advantage of this is that I could read at the same time. Funny, B and I were talking yesterday, about life on the ridge, and we used the same language, he even mentioned that he didn't like having to concentrate on every single step, because he failed to look around, so he stopped more often, which same, I had just noted; also that the silence is sometimes over-whelming. I was carrying a stick of wood from the print-shop porch to the woodshed, and the only thing I could hear was a train carrying coal on the Kentucky side of the river. Our hearing is so acute, because we listen for danger, like peripheral vision. It's all about staying aware. A state of mind. A three thousand page novel that recounts going to a country store for some chewing gum. A Faulkner nightmare in which the sentences go on for pages. A short story that expands into a novel. Simply walking across a frozen river is not the same as the Red Sea parting. Or maybe it is. I guess it depends on your state of mind. I elect to stay on the ridge. It's much more interesting.